


The Miserable Year

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Culture Shock, M/M, Seasonal Affective Disorder, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 20:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17230760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: 2014-15 season, Ángel transfers to Manchester United in the worst decision of his career.





	The Miserable Year

**Author's Note:**

> Features cameos from Marcos, de Gea, Christiano, and Leo.

Ángel knows better than to expect an airport pickup, but he's still disappointed when he can't find a single familiar face in the wave of crimson red that's waiting at the end of the arrivals.

Not even Marcos is there.

He shakes hands and poses for photographs but there are no hugs, no headpats, and certainly no kisses on the cheek. He had been warned about the difference between Mediterranean and British cultures, but it still comes a shock how cold and _distant_ they are.

It's the first of a long series of disappointments.

* * *

It follows that Marcos is the first one he sees, being clubmates and all.

"What were you thinking," is the first Marcos asks of him. His hands are on his hips and he's looking at Ángel the way his teacher looked at him in elementary school, when he declared he would spend the rest of his life playing football.

Ángel blinks, uncertain what Marcos is referring to. "What do you mean?"

"England? Really?" Marcos gestures to the otherwise empty locker rooms. "And Manchester, of all places? Why not Arsenal or Chelsea? At least then you'd be somewhere with good food."

"Cris recommended it," Ángel answers, shrugging nonchalantly. That much is true. He had been in the mood for a change of pace, tired of how match-ups against Barcelona (and Leo, and Javi) felt like beating his head against a brick wall. And so Christiano, who he still admired though the outright idolatry had faded over the years, had recommended his old team, saying they were in need of a decent forward.

"He's gotta be crazy," Marcos rolls his eyes, "There's nothing here."

"You're here."

"Yeah, but not because I want to be." He slams his locker shut and pulls his hoodie on. "You'll see. This city eats you alive."

* * *

Ángel hadn't come to United solely because of Cris' recommendation (or misplaced nostalgia, if you asked Marcos). He was Argentinian through and through, and Rosarino to boot, so there was some part of him that could nonchalantly shrug off disappointment. If it was just about the latest spate of Clásico match-ups, he never would have left.

But, see, during the past year of call-ups, there had been whispers that Kun and Lío had been going through a rough patch. Nothing was explicitly mentioned, since their whole relationship remained a hushed-up affair, but it was pretty obvious Lío was pissed-off about Kun's rejection. Ángel had been shocked to hear it too — like Lío and like the rest of the team, he figured Kun would jump at the chance to (1) leave England, (2) play with Lío, and (3) play for Barcelona.

Then he found out Kun actually really liked England. That he liked Manchester, he liked the Premier League, he liked working with Pellegrini (Ángel had to give him that one; though he had just missed him on Real, he had heard of his talent), and — the cincher — Kun _did not want to play on the same club as Lío_.

So a small voice emerged. It had been buried under years of psychological conditioning but reared its ugly head at the first opportunity. It spoke of opportunity, of possibility, of potential. It said there was a slight kink in the chain and just as a sharp rock might bring down a stallion, so too could a decade-long relationship die to a thousand cuts.

He had been curious, he could admit that much. Curious as to what Kun saw, in the city, in the team, and in the league. But there was something about Kun, something about playing with him and being around him, that brought Ángel back to that summer in Canada where the days seemed to bleed into one another and they could watch the moon rise at a quarter to midnight. Happier times, when they still believed they had a chance of bringing the world to its knees.

* * *

Kun pays him a visit within his first week.

Unlike with Marcos, there's neither disbelief nor surprise. Ángel goes to answer the door and Kun tackles him in his usual bear hug and he melts into the embrace.

In that moment, he mistakenly thinks: this is what I came here for.

"Ángel!" Kun says, pulling back and kissing his cheek. "Good to see you! Sorry I couldn't come earlier, we had training and then there were interviews. So many interviews, God!" he rolls his eyes, "You know how it is."

"Unfortunately," Ángel agrees, nodding sagely. He stands in his doorway for a second too long, forgetting himself in Kun's infectious joy. Then he takes a large step back and gestures inside, "Come on in, won't you? I'll put some mate on and we can catch up."

"Can't, sorry," Kun answers, "Actually, I came over to ask if you wanted to go jogging."

"...Jogging?"

"Yeah, around the neighborhood," Kun gestures to their surroundings, "Get to know the neighbors, well, their dogs and gardens at least. David was supposed to ask you yesterday but he had to leave early."

"...David?"

"De Gea? Your goalie?" Kun raises an eyebrow in surprise as Ángel feels his stomach drop.

"Oh. Right." Because of course Kun would keep in-touch with his old teammate from Atléti. Ángel remembers how close they were (and how annoyed Lío had been over said closeness). So it makes sense that they had gotten even closer, what with Kun's whole self-imposed exile in Manchester and all. "Um," he looks behind him, desperate for an excuse to decline, but he can't come up with anything. "Alright, sure. Give me a minute to get changed."

"Sure thing," Kun answers, beaming.

* * *

And so it is that Ángel takes up the habit of running with Kun and David.

Besides David and Marcos, who play for United, he hangs out with Kun and Pablo. Sometimes Martín joins along, though he's mostly stuck sending his kids to school. To be fair, Ángel doesn't see much of Pablo either, since he's just newlywed and all and he's glad for it. See, Pablo knows him too well, from the Olympics and the call-ups, and Ángel doesn't want to dwell on how ridiculous the whole situation is.

As it turns out, he doesn't need Pablo's help in this regard. England, along with the Premier League, is happy to set him straight.

* * *

After having played through the fall and winter seasons in the Premier League, the jokes about Lío playing on a rainy night in Stoke now make a lot more sense.

It is wet and cold and miserable. It is always either raining or hailing or snowing and either way, he just cannot get any traction on the pitch (or what paases for a pitch in Manchester) and he — just — keeps — _slipping_.

It is absurd, absolutely absurd, how the sky gets dark around _three_. Three in the afternoon! And what passes as sunlight in Manchester wouldn't even register as daybreak in Madrid or Rosario.

"Careful," Marcos warns on evening as he's pulling Ángel up from the mud puddle he's lodged himself into. The fans, drunken, rabid, and positively manic, scream and shout. They hate Ángel and their sentiments are returned.

Ángel wipes the sludge from his face, smearing it further in the process. He spits and ends up tasting more mud. It's only marginally worse than the stuff that passes for cuisine.

"This is the absolute pits," he mutters.

Marcos laughs and slaps him on the back, dislodging a lump of mud trapped between undershirt and jersey.

"Now that's more like it," he says. Ángel has no idea how he's so _cheerful_ in the rain.

It's a coping mechanism, he learns. Nothing more or less. As the weather gets more wretched — and yes, there is a deeper circle to this hell — everyone in the club gets sunnier and sunnier until they're whistling Christmas tunes in the locker room while caked under five centimeters of mud.

* * *

And Ángel hates it. He absolutely _hates_ it.

* * *

Kun comes to see him when the Red Devils are calling for his blood. Eighty million pounds for his transfer, and for what? A forward who couldn't even stand on his two feet? It is a joke; _he_ is a joke.

Ángel's been sick for the past two weeks and a part of him wants nothing more than to stay in bed and die. Kun, on the other hand, is glowing. He is the very picture of health and success and Ángel has no idea how he manages it.

"It's not for everyone," Kun admits. "But I like it."

"Yes, I know that," Ángel answers, "But _why_?" He's taking four different kinds of medicine, one for his cough, one for his fever, and two basic painkillers, and everything is screaming at him to get to the root of things so he can hang up his hat and _leave_.

Kun sighs, shifting slightly in his seat. He looks at the window, with the drapes drawn hastily back, staring at the gray skies.

"Have you ever been to Tierra del Fuego?" Kun asks.

"Yes," Ángel answers, dredging up memories of middle-school family vacations. Home felt like the farthest place in the world and that was back when he thought the Land of Fire was the farthest possible place from home. Now he knows better. He just doesn't know how Kun hasn't arrived at the same conclusion.

"It's like that," Kun explains. "Manchester is... someplace very far away. If I had never come here and someone told me about it, about the league and the fans and the players, I wouldn't believe them. It's like a fairytale, I guess. Like... like a place that doesn't exist."

"And you like it?" Ángel croaks out. "You _like_ the football they play here?"

"Yeah," Kun admits, nodding slowly, "I do. It's crazy and dirty and the weather is awful, like you've seen, but it really takes me back to when we didn't have courts or goals, just a ball and a corner of the park in the Avellaneda. It's like that."

"You're crazy," Ángel rasps, still unable to believe how happy Kun can look, despite it all. "You should've gone to Barcelona." There. He said it.

Kun laughs, reaching over to ruffle his hair. It doesn't matter that Ángel is older and taller, in Manchester, everything is topsy-turvy.

"Not you too," he complains, though his eyes are still sparkling with good cheer. "Listen, I'm here because I want to be. And yeah, the salary is nice and having other guys from the call-ups helps, but even without them, I'd probably stay."

"Because you're crazy."

"Because I like it," Kun corrects. "This is the kind of football I've always wanted to play." And then before Ángel can get a word in, her adds: "But it's not the right kind for you. So don't beat yourself up over it boludo, because there's no point. Go back to Spain or Portugal or even Argentina. Go somewhere where you can actually play." And with that said, he stands up and stoops over to plant a kiss on Ángel's brow.

Ángel closes his eyes and hears Kun let himself out. He imagines Kun jogging back while whistling something from Los Palmeras, unmindful of the rain.

* * *

He goes to sleep and dreams of Madrid. He dreams of Rosario and Lisbon and the dozens of matches between them.

He does not dream of Toronto nor Manchester.

When Ángel wakes in the morning, he finds he can finally breathe through his nose. His fever has gone down overnight and his head feels a lot clearer than it did for the past week. The past year, even. He brushes his teeth and eats a light breakfast before getting on the line with his agent.

"Hey," he starts, filled with a renewed certainty. The sun was shining, as if to screw with his decision, but he didn't give a damn. Even if it never rained again, he wouldn't stay in the Premier League. "This is di María. I'm thinking of transferring out."


End file.
